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Pressing the repeat button in our lives is exigent. Whether it’s an unadorned action or a substantially bigger task, you adhere to the routine, cause it’s a part of your life.
Praying for me is paramount. It’s an intimacy I commit daily and is a peaceful experience everyone should enact. Not only is praying essentially a high order of commendation in my faith, but the proximity and peace one experiences is truly gratifying. The sensation, the oneness, the silent colloquy with God are moments in the day I absorb a true bonding with my lord.
Is praying something you do everyday?
I partake in an ethic ball hockey league called “i-Slam Ball Hockey.” It’s a fabulous non-profit organization that dumps the remainder of the proceeds into various charitable societies, after paying all the arena rental/jersey fees. For example, some years ago, our organization kindly handed a lumpy $12,500 in donations to the Hospital for Sick Children here in Toronto.
This league is segregated into two tiers; tier one and tier two. Tier one is for the adept and “mostly” young at heart, whereas tier two is more recreation and caters to the seasoned, plus some newbies. Regardless, both tiers are full of cheers. I’ve been around the block with this league and have committed my fall activities within their realms. The league’s hallmark season starts in September, but we’ve recently begun a spring season that commences subsequent to the fall.
Last year I felt the heat from many players that insisted I GM (General Manager) a team. Makes sense doesn’t it, since I knew most of the movers and shakers since the league’s inception. I swayed the idea for some time and buckled, only thing was that I needed to have a partner to GM. There wasn’t anyone smoother to tandem with than my buddy Haris Mallick. Our friendship originates back from the days of Sunday Hockey (pick up), we fountained and shelved the “Blade Runners” (our own hockey team) and I knew that working again with Haris would be awesome.
Eventually we drafted what we had a perceived a “competitive” team. Week in and week out, our team managed to collect a handful of wins and ties that eventually had “Yaqeen” (our team’s name) residing in first place. Mind you that every team plays 10 games and the top 4 out of 6 qualifies for the playoffs. The conclusion of the season quickly approached and many teams were in, “desperation mode.” Yaqeen was unbeaten in nine and was craving to notch ten. However, our last regulation match was against a team that was hungrier than us, a challenge bigger than one can imagine. Though many rival GM’s and teams stuck around to watch the last match of regular season, many wondered if Yaqeen would finally sip the cup of defeat or if Zuhd could do the unimaginable.
I wasn’t in the greatest of moods since many of my teammates were absent; on top of that there was this raging pressure to finish the year perfect, but how? So many key weapons were absent that my roster was cut down to half. A loss would knock my team for a first place cushion to second. We had 9 guys and a goalie, ready to give it our best and for the first time ever our bench looked thin. We sucked it up, prayed for the best and dived in. Mind you, the remnants of that night’s roster were still character guys, gents that knew the game and competed themselves to the final second.
The game went back and forth as both teams were adjusting to the pace. After many chances, my boys got Yaqeen on the board. Playing as defensive minded as possible, the guys managed to hold the fort as the first of two periods finally halted. Enter the second period. Zuhd got back on the board to even things out. My team never gave up and utilized their energy wisely. Momentum swayed like a pendulum till Yaqeen popped another one in to take a 2-1 lead. Zuhd’s troops didn’t give up as their urgency finally dictated the remainder of the game. The opposition scored the equalizer and pulled their goalie for the extra attacker. With a mere 19 seconds left in the game, our goalie was tumbled over by player (who was pushed) and was late in smothering a loose ball infront of him. The rest was history as Zuhd shovelled the ball in a yawning open net. Zuhd’s roar spoke volumes. It was a nasty feeling since we weren’t used to losing.
So close to the 10 game unbeaten streak, but no cigar.
I was overwhelmed with our team’s success. Despite losing in the playoffs, we’re still heroes that’ll maintain our heads high in pride.
Have you ever come close to achieving something?
Many times, random kids called me “ugly”. Teenagers plaster me with haymakers for their hilarity. Once in a while an elderly pair will braze by me with a frightened gander. This is a conventional day for me. I’m always a witness to everything. Arguments, confessions, loving sentiments, I “hear” it all, straight and simple, being a dummy is not fun.
The other day, I overheard the assistant manager and head manager discussing Bill’s termination. I didn’t want Bill to go, he had a family and always paced by me with a smile on his face, unlike the other employees. A true employee, Bill was always glued to his work and never foul mouthed anyone. On Friday, during a lunchtime rush, Bill trolled from pillar to post, serving customers and eventually succumbed to fatigue. He hadn’t had lunch, so he gingerly sat on the treadmill, which is situated in front of me and bellowed a hefty breath of air. Though Bill was young in spirits, his rickety body couldn’t handle the exertion.
“Go big or go home Billy, gotta meet the weekly quotas,” harped the head manager. Bill planted his feet firm and attended some customers that we’re waiting on him to get some sizes. Unfortunately, the frustrated clients lost their patience with Bill and hastily exited the store.
My sympathies went out to the veteran, who was striving to keep his family from drowning in the deep end of life. Despite many tongue lashings from his superiors, Bill was eventually relieved of his duties. The seasoned salesman pleaded for a second chance after assuring his manager that, “it wouldn’t happen again.” However, the boss stood firm on his decision and played deaf. I vividly recollect that day as the veteran had a tear in his eye, yet held his head high in repute. Bill croaked that same smile but made this difficult eye contact with me whilst exiting the store, as if he was saying good bye.
Ironically, I was sold to a karate school the next day and bid farewell to my makeshift home. Those gloomy days and dark nights of solitude expired. I was boxed in a temporary grave and eventually greeted by a group of tenacious individuals, only to absorb my duty of marinating abuse. Bill’s world of torture in the store was done with. He didn’t have to be paranoid of “surviving another day.” Conversely, my torture of enduring blows just started. Being a dummy is not fun.
As life’s challenges continue to barrage my existence, I’m finally embracing the sedulous task of teaching my son to ride a bike.
If my flashbacks serve me right, I was 9 years old when I clutched the motility of coasting down sidewalks. I vividly remember my father nursing my every peddle and comforting me throughout the dreadful trek. You thought fishing required tolerance? This is truly a test of patience and you don’t apprehend it till your own bundle of joy ventures to echo history.
I know many parents would rather toss their kids on a field, where the fall would cause minimal affliction, but daddy destined to administer a different detour. Though the imagination of falling on rock hard concrete haunted my son, we remained confident and approached the two wheeled beast.
In the anticipation of generating “tears of happiness” from mommy, Maazin and I strolled down to the longest stretch of sidewalk and got to work. It was nerve racking for the little guy, as each peddle pendulated him like an intoxicated person walking on a straight line. Grasping the back of his seat in full support, I can feel the little bugger scramble to repress his weight as he meandered away. Feeling like a cheap tow, I told my son to control his body and scrutinize on reminding straight with his arms in full control. At that point I began to support him by the waist instead, as we both waddled away.
What’s a lesson without a little whining? Excuses, excuses. From the sun getting into his eyes to me picking the wrong day. He had more stories than Walt Disney! From onlookers in cars honking in support (I hope), to joggers smirking during their exertion; we were having a ball. “I remember those days,” muttered a elderly gentlemen as he snickered in sarcasm.
The waist support was more cogent as we chugged along and digested about 8 pit stops. Their were signs of rectification being broadcasted as fruits of labour seem to be pay off. He didn’t learn immediately but there was a fine distinction that Maazin seized the concept.
All of a sudden, I lost a step and let Maazin go! He coasted for a solid two meters till he lost his balance and halted with his feet. Excited, shocked and moved, I kissed him in joy and was proud that my boy conquered the prerequisites.